


Vacation

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse Drabbles - General [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Magic, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John take a little vacation in the country early in their new relationship.<br/>John's locked out of the car. Then later they need to sort out sleeping arrangements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raining

”I don’t care if you think you saw-“  
      ”I don’t THINK I saw it, John. I KNOW I saw it.”  
      ”Whatever. I don’t care.”  
      ”Then you won’t mind if I go have a look.”  
      And that was that. Sherlock opened the door, climbed out of the car and trod back down the road the way they’d come. At least he’d listened to John and taken his umbrella.  
      It had been six hours and the rain was falling again.  
      It wasn’t a good idea to steal the cab in the first place. But it was fun, it was daring, and by Jove, Sherlock had made it sound so exciting. Sitting in the warmth of the cab, John wished he’d listened to Sherlock after their Baskerville adventure and learned how to drive. It made sense to have the skill, even if he never used it. Just in case.  
      He pulled his phone out of his coat and traced the block lettering, made to resemble the font of text messages, engraved on the back. “Lost without your blogger,” John said, then added under his breath. “Well there’s nothing to bloody blog about if you’re out there mucking about in the mud.” He sighed and turned it over to look at the screen. No text. No calls. No bloody signal.  
      He reached over and cracked the door just a bit. The rain was starting to let up some. Maybe if he stepped out…  
                             **o0o**  
      Sherlock walked down the road, glancing back at the cab with John inside and holding the umbrella across his shoulders. John hadn’t seen it, of course. But he had. And he had to go have a look himself. The cab they’d stolen was nearly out of petrol, so it wouldn’t make sense to backtrack in it if they wanted to reach the village.  
      He could, of course, apparate there and back. But he’d made it very clear. No more magic than absolutely necessary. The more magic he did, the harder it was for him to resist. It was, for him, like a drug. One that unfortuately he couldn’t just flush out of his system like all the others. No, he was going to walk. He was going to walk back down that road and have a proper look the muggle way. Even if it took him all day and night.  
      Six hours later, huddled under his umbrella, he was starting to regret this decision and wanted the wamrth of a nice fire in a nice little cottage in a nice village. Maybe a tumbler of brandy and yes, even a good meal. Because by Jove, John had earned a vacation.  
      But how could Sherlock possibly pass up what could only have been a dead hiker, or better yet a dead farmer. Those were always much more intriguing than hikers. Hikers went missing all the time but farmers…  
      The detective splashed through the mud, gripping his umbrella tight and searching his pockets for something to light his way. The night was starting to draw in, and the rainclouds didn’t help either. His fingers flitted over various tools and useless items in his pockets before he found his phone. Oh yes, that would work. The LCD screen was nice and bright.  
      He pulled this from his pocket and turned it so that the light would shine out ahead of him. Not as bright as he’d hoped as he trudged along, but better than nothing. The way he held it, he could faintly see the engraving on the back. _Brilliant! Amazing! You still don’t know the solar system._ For a moment he felt bad for leaving John behind when clearly he could have been rather useful for when he found the body.  
      ”Well, I can’t exactly be brilliant and amazing if there’s no one around to watch me, now can I?” he mused, giving a soft chuckle as he left the road, finding the patch of broken limbs and scattered leaves that to anyone else would seem perfectly normal and natural. But to him, it was the signs of a struggle. Tell tale signs of…  
      ”You’ve got to be kidding me…” he half said, half moaned, seconds before his phone shouted his own name in conjunction with a rather rude moan that always made Mrs. Hudson blush. But no more so than John.  
      He checked the message, frowned, and then took a picture of his find as a reply.  
                                  **o0o**  
      A familiar, and a bit rude sounding, sigh came from John’s pocket. He smirked, reminded exactly of how that had got on there. He took his phone out and checked it again, staring at the little screen in mixed relief and amusement. If it had taken Sherlock six hours to get there, it would take him six hours to get back unless he cheated. Glancing towards the sky, John wished he would. Just this once he wouldn’t get mad at him.  
      Looking back at the screen, he shook his head and chuckled, sending another text before reaching for the door. He slipped his fingers under the handle and lifted, then pulled.  
      He did it again.  
      ”Bloody hell…”  
      The rain began to fall heavily once more, and John glowered at the door before going around to try another. He tried every door before he was once more at the passenger side, glowering again from beneath his umbrella.  
      He sent an angry text to Sherlock, and settled in for a long, angry wait.  
                                 **o0o**  
      Sherlock had kicked it first. Just to be sure. Then, reluctantly, he started the long walk back. He’d gone a few feet when his phone shouted and moaned at him again. He narrowed his eyes at the screen. By the amount of typos and autocorrects, he could tell John was rather upset. But he couldn’t be sure if it was about a frolicking tabby. More than likely John had meant “fucking taxi”.  
      Obviously, he’d been locked out. And Sherlock, not seeing the point of leaving the keys with someone who couldn’t even drive, had taken them with him. He laughed. There was nothing for it. He would **have** to apparate back to John and their wheels.  
                                 **o0o**  
      John startled at the pop, and turned towards it. “Thank God!” he shouted, a little more happily than he should have judging by the smirk on Sherlock’s face. “You could have just popped over and then popped back you know. Would have saved a hell of a lot of time.”  
      Sherlock just nodded, searching his pockets.  
      And searching.  
      He froze, realizing he didn’t have the keys.  
      ”John.”  
      His boyfirend’s eyes narrowed. He knew that tone, and he didn’t like it. It always meant something terrible, something horrible, and something a bit… well, sometimes things exploded. But that was because Sherlock would leave the eyes in the microwave too long. “Don’t tell me…” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose and his voice came out as a groan. “You lost the keys, didn’t you?”  
      ”I can fix this.” Sherlock reached into the lining of his jacket and removed his wand. He turned back towards the direction of the curiosity that had pulled him from the car to begin with. “ _Accio_ keys.” He swished his wand and flicked his wrist. “Now we wait.”  
      ”I’m freezing. Can you at least-“  
      ”Oh, right. Of course.” He cast the unlocking charm on the car doors before tucking his wand back into the safety of his jacket. “In you go.”  
      ”Thanks,” John muttered, closing his umbrella and climbing into the taxi. He slammed the door and sat, arms crossed over his chest, wet umbrella at his feet, and glared through the windshield at Sherlock. “ _Let’s take a break_ , he says. _You need a vacation_ , he says. _How about a romantic getaway in the country,_ he says.” John muttered something more under his breath as he watched Sherlock through the window. Just waiting there. He opened the door just enough to be heard. “If I don’t find myself in a comfy bed under a nice warm duvet before dawn, you’re cut off from cases for a month!”  
      Sherlock turned around, frowning at him from beneath his umbrella as John shut his door back.  
      He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he heard jingling. “Ah! The keys!”  
      From inside the cab, John’s eyes went wide as he pointed, trying to get Sherlock to turn around and look at the mass of metal heading towards him. The large, steel cloud of… “Oh god…” He flung open the door and hung out of it. “Sherlock! Get in!”  
      ”But-“  
      John was pointing now, into the sky behind the detective. “GET IN THE BLOODY CAR!” he snapped and climbed back in, slamming the door before diving between the front seats into the back. Sherlock turned around. Two seconds later he dissapeared, only to reappear in a small cloud of grey smoke in the back seat beside John.  
      The sky no longer rained water alone. They listened to the pelting of metal keys as they dropped from above. Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably. “I’m… wet.”  
      ”Under different circumstances, I’d think that was a come on,” John said, daring to peer into the front seats before pulling back as a whole heavy ring of keys dropped onto the windshield. He sat back with a grunt and looked at Sherlock, who was trying to wipe the mud off his trousers. “Don’t you know, I dunno, cleaning spells or something?”  
      ”When have you known me to clean?”  
      ”It’s a…. Seriously? It can’t be that hard. Just use the wand. Literally, just wave it in the air like the lunatic you are. No hard work required.”  
      ”No. I’ve already used too much magic. Judging by the fact that I have summoned every key within a fifty mile radius I do not think it would be a good idea to attempt another spell. I may incinerate my clothing.”  
      John sighed and pulled out of his coat. He turned his back to him and covered up. He could at least try and get some sleep. Focusing on his breathing, he tried to relax.  
      Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye. Every twitch with every key as it pelted the taxi from above. Sounding almost like a continuous hail of bullets. Quietly he slid closer, taking John’s coat long enough to snuggle up against him, wet and muddy and all. He covered them both with the coat again, and rested his head on John’s shoulder as the soldier’s twitching eased up some.  
      ”Sherlock-“  
      ”Cold. Body heat,” he lied.  
      John nodded, closing his eyes and listening to his breathing again, this time as it slowed to match his detective’s.  
      Years later, when John would tell this story to Mycroft and Lestrade at one of the family Christmas to-dos, he’d remind Sherlock that he’d walked six hours in hopes of finding a good murder but instead found a shop window dummy covered in red paint.


	2. Arranging the Sleeping Arrangements

Six glorious days of nothing.  
      Six days of absolute peace.  
      Six days without a telly, internet, and only a phone.  
      Sherlock was going mad.  
      John on the other hand was having quite a nice time in the little rented cottage. There was so much open space around them, and the wonderful view of the ocean, that even when Sherlock was bored John needn’t worry about the walls.  
      What he had to really worry about was the local wildlife.  
      Because when Sherlock got bored… Well, John should have known better than to let him outside by himself. Now all the animals, even the birds, stayed as far away from the cottage as they possibly could.  
      It wasn’t all bad. As the sixth night of their two week vacation presented itself with quite a surprising twist…  
    _ **“I’m sleeping with you.”**_  
      John looked up from his book, Sherlock’s tall frame blocking the light from the fireplace. “I? You? Sure?” What could he possibly say to that?  
      Then again… John’s idea of sleeping with someone and Sherlock’s idea of sleeping with someone were two entirely different trains of thought that threatened to collide, and nearly had when night fell and John nervously staved off sleep. But as the grandfather clock struck midnight, Sherlock appeared once again in the sitting room wearing his dressing gown. Beneath it, of course, were his sleep trousers and one of John’s old t-shirts. The man had taken to wearing them around the flat whenever they’d ended up in his own laundry by mistake. John never got them back.  
      But there he was, looking down with his hands on his hips, at John. “Are you coming to bed?” he asked, his voice almost an accusation. “How can I sleep with you if you are not in your bed?” He reached down to take the book from his boyfriend’s hands and pull him up from his seat. John noted he was careful to pull predominently on his right arm, holding the left only for balance.  
      “Come. To. Bed.”  
      “Sherlock, I don’t think-“  
      “You’re tired. I’m actually tired. Merlin knows why… I’ve been sitting around doing nothing all week.”  
      “There was the day you spent chasing squirrels with a bit of wood around the house.”  
      ”That was an experiment,” Sherlock huffed, pulling him out of the room and up the stairs to the bedrooms.  
      Each time John tried to wriggle his arm away, Sherlock’s fingers tightened. Eventually, when Sherlock had opened the door to the room John had picked for their stay, the doctor was released and Sherlock divested himself of his dressing gown, hanging it neatly on a nail.  
      ”Okay…” John said in the doorway, watching Sherlock as he moved to the double bed and pulled back the blankets. “How… Well, I mean- Have you really thought this through?”  
      ”I’m only sleeping with you,” Sherlock said, climbing under the blankets. He looked back to John expectantly, noting that his boyfriend was still standing in the doorway, fidgeting. “What? Have I overstepped my bounds? My research indicates that this is what happy, healthy couples do. They share a bed and sleeping quarters.”  
      ”Oh. Well, yeah. That’s good. That’s very-“  
      “Quit babbling like an idiot and get in the bed.”  
      ”Like this? I’m not even… I’m still wearing my jeans. It’d be a bit uncomfortable-“  
      Ash colored eyes rolled “Then change clothes. Really, John.”  
      After a few more awkward moments, and Sherlock’s running commentary on how childish John was being for not wanting to change in front of him, John was finally crawling under the blankets. His heart was racing, expecting at any moment to be accosted from the other side of the bed. It’s not like he didn’t know it was coming. That at some point he and Sherlock would…  
      Just as he thought it, Sherlock chuckled turning onto his side to stared at John’s worried and confused expression. “John,” he purred from his side of the bed. “I’m not going to molest you in your sleep. Still taking my  potions, remember. Just like I promised.”  
      John licked his lips nervously. “Good,” he replied, a little more firmly than he’d intended.  
      But Sherlock just smiled. “Think of it as falling asleep on the sofa. Or last Tuesday when I made it rain keys.”  
      Inwardly, John was kicking himself. Sherlock was right, he was being childish. _Of course_ his boyfriend had meant sleeping. Literally just sleeping. Together. In the same bed. Nothing more. Sherlock just watched him. Watched the gears turn and the thoughts process and work themselves out in his mind. When he saw the relief of realization cross John’s face, Sherlock scooted closer.  
      ”You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said, giving him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “When I decide to propose intercourse you will be well informed of my intentions.”  
      And with that, he rolled back to his side of the bed, his back to John and turned out the light.  
      Sherlock slept soundly through the night.  
      John lay awake, unsure if the problem between his legs was from close proximity to his wizard boyfriend or the result of his overactive imagination conjuring possible situations in which Sherlock would _inform_ him of his intentions.


End file.
